


Snipes 'n' Shells: GAIDEN

by sullenSniper



Series: Snipes 'n' Shells [2]
Category: OFF (Game), Team Fortress 2
Genre: Crossover, Gen, M/M, Multi, Original Character(s), Original Character-centric, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 11:18:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1426543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sullenSniper/pseuds/sullenSniper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of short stories set in the SnS 'verse. From Valentines to crossdressing, these tales of love and friendship will leave a warm, fluffy feeling inside. Also features a crossover with Mortis Ghost's OFF.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Valentine's Day Crossover Special: "Sugar-Free"

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: This story stars a cast of OCs in a canon universe, and may contain elements that may make some people uncomfortable (animal cruelty, tragic backstory clichés, fanservice).
> 
> Also, this is a very old story, about as old as the main story's prologue, if not older. As a result, the characters act kind of wonky compared to the current characterization.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Valentine's Day at Teufort, and Hartmann--the headstrong Medic of BLU--has turned the holiday into a challenge, with the winners receiving a "special reward" and the losers a cut in their paychecks! Understandably, everyone's a little freaked out. Everyone except The Batter, who seems to not care about the holiday in the least. Can the BLU Scout change his tune?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is old. VERY OLD. About as old as the main story's original prologue (February 2013). As a result, it suffers from some wonky characterization (and transitions), even with revisions.

 

 

The lounge room is abuzz as the BLU mercenaries gather together, wondering why their Medic have brought them here. The only one with butterflies in the pit of their stomach is the Scout, who is all too used to the eccentric doctor's antics. After many moments of anxious waiting, the tall and pudgy BLU Medic enters.

 

“Everyone,” he says with a smile on his face. “May I have your attention please?”

 

The others are too preoccupied with their current conversations. The irritation is visible on the old man's face. “I said, 'May I have your attention please?'” He says, projecting his voice and clapping his hands for emphasis.

 

Immediately, the mercs shut up and turn to face him. The doctor has a way of commanding attention, one of many reasons why most consider him as the closest thing to a team leader. “Now zhat I have your attention,” he says, his cheerful demeanor back and stronger than ever, “I have an announcement. As you all know, Valentine's Day is tomorrow, and I know it is very important to some of you.” He catches a glance of the Spy, whose excitement is far from hidden. “Sadly, because of vork, ve might not be able to celebrate it as ve vould like to. So I have taken the initiative and planned a very special event for all of us here at BLU.”

 

Wary but interested, the mercenaries begin to mutter to each other. “But zhere is a catch. All of you must give a Valentine to at least one of your teammates by zhe end of zhe day. Ozhervise, you vill be penalized. Und I'll cut your paycheck.”

 

All around, the voices of the outraged ring out their protests.

 

“You can't do that!”

 

“That's not fair!”

 

“Is that even legal?”

 

The Medic raises a hand to silence them. “But zhere is an upside. Whoever receives zhe most Valentines vill get a special revard.” The crowd, amazed and baffled, starts chattering amongst themselves.

 

The Scout is as surprised as everybody else, but at the same time, wary. The doctor is generally supportive of his troops, but can also be rather harsh, even to the Scout. He is, after all, the young merc's godfather, and the closest thing to a paternal figure here in the badlands. Still, the fact that they're related does little to reduce his tension; it's quite possible the risks could be even greater for him, should he fail. His eyes scan the room for potential receivers of the chocolate he will undoubtedly buy from the local store, and spots a few familiar faces.

 

The Sniper—Mortimer Mundy—is surprisingly popular, despite his eccentric nature. He's a big goofball who livens up the atmosphere with a hug and a smile; even those annoyed by him prefer to stay on his good side. The Spy, while also nice and quirky, is a little more down-to-earth, and is the only one who's kept his cool throughout the announcement. However, he already seems to have his mind dead-set on Mort, thus making both of them inaccessible. The Demoman's always busy, the Soldier's too grumpy, the Heavy has a way of unintentionally patronizing him, and Pyro's, well, Pyro. Scout is about to consider the Engineer when he notices another figure, leaning against the wall on the other end of the room.

 

The figure, at first glance, looks just like any other Scout. But closer inspection reveals otherwise: he's taller and paler, with more masculine features, and his outfit more closely resembles an archetypal baseball uniform than the Scout's more casual ensemble. Right away, the Scout's anxiety washes over, leaving behind a feeling of relief.

 

In time, the commotion quells down, and the room trickles down in number, until only the Scout and the Medic remain.

 

“So, Vincent, have any ideas?” The Medic queries, his jolly mood returning.

 

Thrown off by the statement, the Scout stammers a reply. “N-nothing in particular.”

 

“Relatives don't count, you know.”

 

“What do you think I am, some kind of loner?” Vincent crosses his arms and averts his gaze.

 

“I know, I know. Still, sometimes I vorry. You're zhe youngest member here, and... vell... I fear you might feel a little bit left out sometimes. You never fare vell vith Valentine's Day.”

 

Vincent doesn't say anything at first. He doesn't want to admit his loneliness, especially during a time when it's discouraged. “Left out? I have plenty of friends around here. I promise you, I will make this Valentine's Day the best I've ever had.”

 

The Medic lets out a hearty chuckle and wraps his arm around the Scout. “Sure you vill, boy.”

 

“Now you're just teasing me.” The young man tries to push the larger man's arm away, only to be further constricted by him.

 

“I mean it, Vince.” The fat doctor embraces the smaller boy. “You're a smart boy. Why, I bet you've already got plenty of ideas in that little head of yours!” He lets go and ruffles the Scout's hair. “Surprise me tomorrow, Kaninchen.” The doctor gives Vincent one last smile before leaving the lounge to catch up with the Heavy.

 

Dawn breaks upon the BLU fortress, and the most hectic Valentine's Day ever begins. All the mercs, having purchased or made their chocolates and Valentines ahead of time, are scrambling to get rid of as many of their chocolates as possible. It's quite obvious who is doing it out of charity and who's doing it for their own gain. But reward or not, at least nobody will be left out. Or so the Scout thought.

 

Throughout the morning, Vince has caught glances at the other Scout, and eventually a pattern starts forming in his head. During the times when he's not out fighting, he's often seen empty-handed and alone. As his roommate, Vince has noticed little things about the other man, like his preference for black coffee and his difficulty distinguishing between colors (which had caused the BLU team some trouble a while back). He never was popular with the other mercs, but on a day when he's finally receiving attention, he pushes them away. The question is... why?

 

Vincent doesn't have much time to think about it, as his attention keeps being diverted by his other colleagues. As it turns out, Duncan isn't as busy as the Scout predicted, and Mortimer has managed to break away from the Spy's grasp long enough to exchange chocolates with him. Even Miller seems to tolerate his presence for once. It seems that everyone wants to give him something, though Vince is unsure of why. Perhaps he's more popular than even he expected. Not that he was ever unpopular; though neurotic and uptight he may be, he's still a valuable part of the team, and deserves the respect of his older teammates.  _Or maybe they’re just looking for that “special reward”_ , he ponders, growing disappointed.

 

Later that day, after a particularly gruesome shift at Teufort, Vincent decides to head to the town in search for a last-minute gift for the other Scout. The storefronts are decorated with frills and silk ribbons, and display heart-shaped boxes of assorted chocolates and cute teddy bears bearing sickeningly sweet messages. Vince enters the convenience store, and is greeted by a flurry of pink, red, and white. The whole thing makes the young man embarrassed to be there. He marches on anyway.

 

Browsing through the aisles, the Scout sifts through the plethora of boxes of candies. His sweet tooth is tempted by all the sugary treats before him, and his thoughts shift down a more selfish direction…

 

“Hi zhere!”

 

The Scout drops the box he was holding and turns to face the source of the voice behind him. Standing there, giggling behind a stuffed koala, is the BLU Spy. The Spy picks up the box and grins mischievously. “Buying chocolates for a special someone, I see. So tell me: who is it?”

 

Vince swipes the box from him and puts it back. “Definitely not for you!” He pauses to glance at the stuffed koala. “Is that for Mort? I thought you already gave him something.”

 

The Spy’s face becomes flustered underneath his balaclava as he hides the bear behind him. “Ah, yes. W-well, zhat is anozher matter entirely. So, how’s Valentine’s Day going for you?”

 

“Okay, I guess. I got something from everyone except Hartmann and Batter…”

 

“Le Batteur? You don’t mean zhat weirdo Scout who sits in the corner, brooding and shit? I tried giving him chocolate earlier today, and he rejected me outright!” He scoffs and mutters French insults under his breath.

 

“Wait, he  _rejected_  you?”

 

“Oui. He’s been putting down everybody’s gifts all day, zhe little creep!”

 

The Scout ponders over this revelation as he changes the subject. “Oh… Well, any luck with Hartmann?”

 

The Spy gives an exasperated sigh. “Nobody’s had any luck with zhe Medic. I’m beginning to think he tricked us.” Vincent doesn't even bother to protest; moody though he may be, the Spy is hardly ever wrong about these things. The Spy stops to take a glance at his watch and says with a tone of anxiety in his voice, “I should go now. I’ll see you back at zhe fort!” Cradling the bear with one arm, he waves to the Scout as he makes a mad dash out of the store. For a brief moment, Vince could have sworn the stuffed koala looks awfully familiar.

 

Turning his attention back to the candy rack, Vince begins to mull over his observations. If the Batter’s been turning down everybody, there’s probably a good reason for it. Come to think of it, does he even like candy? He’s seen Batter chewing gum on occasions, and they once spent an evening together eating popcorn while watching horror films, so it’s not like he hates all junk food. But something’s not right. He must be missing something important…

 

 

That morning, the Batter woke up and made coffee for the both of them. As his flatmate left his coffee unattended, the Scout noticed that the drink was deep blackish-brown, almost like molasses.  _He's always so bitter and dull; he could use something sweet._  The Scout scooped a few spoonfuls of sugar into his mug, and then several more into the other one. It was meant to be a joke, but the Batter wasn't laughing. At all. After receiving an earful, the Scout sat back and watched as the other man stormed out of the room, never returning for that remainder of the day.

 

 

The Scout feels a need to slap himself in the forehead.  _Of course! How could I have been so stupid?_  Having completed the puzzle, he sets out in search of a more appropriate gift. But the store—big and varied as it was—doesn't have much to offer in the way of Valentine’s Day presents. Considering how girly and romanticized the holiday is, there aren't a lot of options for a guy trying to buy something for his friend. Vincent is beginning to think he’s running out of options—and time. But just as he starts to walk out of the shop, his eye catches sight of the perfect gift.

 

Once again, Hartmann has ordered everyone to gather around at the lounge room, under the pretense of announcing the “winners” of his little game. Some of the mercs have scared looks on their faces; going against the doctor’s orders, they've taken nibbles at some of their chocolates, or eaten a good chunk of it before arriving. The Spy doesn't appear to be worried—in fact, he looks quite content. The reason becomes obvious, as he hands the stuffed koala—a cleaned-up and redressed Li'l Bruce—to a pleasantly surprised Mortimer.

 

But the Scout is not too concerned about their issues. For him, the Batter is his utmost priority. But he is nowhere in sight.

 

“Everyone, before ve start counting, I have an announcement to make. First off, I am sorry for zhe lack of consideration from my end. Zhat is because I vas busy with my gift to all of you. Pasha, if you vould please.”

 

On cue, the Heavy standing closest to him rushes out of the room and returns a moment later, wheeling in a snack cart covered with a tablecloth. “Gentlemen, I offer you...” The Medic dramatically pulls the cloth off, unveiling a massive chocolate heart. “ZHIS! Happy Valentine's Day, from me to you.” After taking a moment to witness the mercenaries' surprised and slightly baffled reactions, he says, “Vell? Vhat are you vaiting for? Dig in!”

 

Before anybody else could do so, Mortimer speaks up. “But what about the contest? Dontcha have t' declare a winner or somethin'?”

 

“Ah, ja. About zhat... Zhere is no contest.” The mercs become furious, but the Medic quells them down with the raise of his hand. “But for all your efforts today, I declare you all vinners! Your paychecks vill come in zhe mail tomorrow morning, raise and all.”

 

Delighted by the news, all the men cheer and celebrate with chocolate, wine, and good fun. But while Vince appears to be enjoying himself with his friends here at the base, a nagging feeling continues to eat away at him, and he finds himself unable to eat or drink anything. The doctor notices this and approaches him.

 

“Dear Kaninchen, vhy zhe long face? I thought you'd be happy to hear zhe news.”

 

“I do! It's just... Well... It's about the Batter. I dunno why, but I can't help but feel sorry for him, somehow. And he's not even here! It's like...” He bites his lower lip, unable to express his thoughts.

 

The Medic smiles gently and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Vell, if you must go, I von't hold it against you.” He takes the slice of chocolate from the Scout and sets it aside. “I'll save zhis for later. Hop along now, little rabbit.”

 

The message is clear as day. Vincent smiles back and he hugs the plump Medic before running off.

 

~ ~ ~

 

When the Scout enters his dorm, he is kindly welcomed by clean floors, redecorated walls and furniture, and—most notably—a candle-lit table. Vincent instantly recognizes the handiwork as the Batter’s, due to the excessive use of white (what little color is present is portrayed in various pastel hues, the result of the man’s color-blindness).

 

As the young man is about to sit down, he is suddenly thrown against the counter and greeted with a baseball bat squeezed tightly against his throat. The owner of the bat—and the body pressed against him—can only belong to one person. “You dare trespass in our domain, Valdo?” The Scout cannot see the attacker’s face too well in the shadows of the candle light, but the voice, deep and smooth like silk, is, without a doubt, the Batter’s.

 

The Scout struggles in vain to fight off the man. “It’s me… Vincent!”

 

“If you’re really Vincent, then prove it.”

 

Vince manages to loosen the bat’s grip from his throat long enough to speak. “Remember that one time we went to the movies, and you were talking about how those ghosts were totally fake and ‘unghostly’ while I was pissing my pants in fright? That was the first time I’ve heard you laugh since we first met.”

 

A heavy silence permeates the room as the two Scouts exchange stares. Then the Batter steps back, allowing the Scout to go free. Immediately, Vincent’s mind wanders off to the present in his backpack, which he’s still wearing. “Aw, great, it’s probably ruined by now.” He unzips the pack and whips out a heart-shaped candy box, which he offers to the Batter. “Anyway, here.”

 

The Batter reluctantly takes the box and looks at it. It looks like any other store-bought chocolate, but the label on the front says “Sugar-free White Chocolate”. There’s a tremor of vulnerability in his voice. “You really didn't have to do this…”

 

“’Course I do! After what I did to you this morning, I had to make up for it somehow.” The Scout’s voice softens. “Besides, I noticed you were rejecting everybody else’s gifts, so I thought…”

 

“It wasn’t simply because of the gifts they were offering. I rejected them on the grounds of their impure motives. I know I'm not exactly popular with the others, especially after my actions back then. The fact that I’m not exactly part of the team does little to build their trust of me. And with the contest going on, I assumed they were just giving me things out of pity. So I turned them all down.”

 

The Scout is initially baffled by what he’s hearing, but upon further thought, what the Batter says rings true. “So, are you gonna turn me down, too?”

 

The Batter says, “Why should I? You’re the only one who took me into consideration.” He glances at the chocolate box in his hands, then turns his attention back to Vince. “I don’t believe I will be able to eat all of this. Would you mind if I split this with you?”

 

The Scout happily accepts, and the Batter sets the chocolate down on the table. Using a sharp knife from the silverware drawer, he cuts off the rounded parts of the heart shape and hands them to his dorm mate. “Interesting... The cut’s a bit off, but does this remind you of anything?” He holds up the remaining piece of chocolate to show off.

 

“Hey, it looks just like home base!” The two laugh. “Hey, you know, instead of attacking me straight up, how ‘bout we come up with an easier system?” Vincent claps his two hands together and splits them apart until only their fingertips touch, forming a diamond shape from the space between them. “Maybe we can use this as a symbol that we recognize each other. And maybe we'll throw in a password or something.”

 

“But what if Valdo catches on?”

 

“Hey, even if he’s aware of what’s going on, he’ll still have no clue, because he won’t understand what it means. The question is, do you trust me?”

 

The Batter thinks long and hard about it, before finally replying with a diamond and a smile.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Since that night, whenever the Batter and the Scout cross paths in the fortress or around town, one of them would flash a diamond, and the other would do the same. Depending on the situation, sometimes they would vary the manner in which the diamond is formed—they might just use two fingers from each hand or use whatever they have on hand. And none of the other members on either side are the wiser.

 

 

As for the Medic, well, he has a lot of explaining to do about all the IOU notes he left in everybody’s paycheck envelopes the following morning.


	2. "Fate"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent never asked for a pet. Never wanted one in his life. Then Fate came at his door. Stupid cat. Stupid twin brother. What is this Scout to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: References to animal cruelty/death and substance/drug abuse.
> 
> This is a slightly more recent story (though still old), with improved characterization and such. However, some elements introduced or featured in this story have eventually become retconned or altered in the main story. Still, it's a notable piece of SnS history because of it.

_I_ _remember_ _having_ _a_ _pet_ _as_ _a_ _kid._ _A_ _dog,_ _to_ _be_ _exact._ _Well,_ _more_ _like_ _a_ _puppy_ _—tiny_ _and_ _full_ _of_ _life,_ _like_ _I_ _was._ _My_ _brothers_ _and_ _I_ _practically_ _had_ _to_ _beg_ _to_ _our_ _ma_ _and_ _do_ _chores_ _and_ _everything,_ _but_ _we_ _finally_ _got_ _our_ _wish_ _granted._

_Goldie_ _was_ _a_ _beautiful_ _little_ _cocker_ _spaniel,_ _and_ _happened_ _to_ _be_ _the_ _runt_ _of_ _the_ _litter._ _Valdo_ _complained_ _about_ _how_ _small_ _she_ _was,_ _but_ _the_ _rest_ _of_ _us_ _fell_ _in_ _love_ _with_ _her._ _Especially_ _me;_ _I_ _named_ _her_ _and_ _fed_ _her_ _and_ _played_ _with_ _her_ _the_ _most._ _I_ _can_ _say_ _with_ _absolute_ _confidence_ _that_ _she_ _and_ _I_ _were_ _the_ _best_ _of_ _friends._

_But_ _apparently,_ _I_ _must_ _not_ _have_ _loved_ _her_ _enough._ _After_ _a year of_ _treating_ _her_ _like_ _the_ _little_ _sister_ _I_ _never_ _had,_ _she_ _ran_ _away_ _from_ _home._ _We_ _set_ _up_ _a_ _search_ _party_ _and_ _looked_ _everywhere,_ _but_ _to_ _no_ _avail._ _Goldie_ _was_ _gone_ _for_ _good._

_I_ _never_ _had_ _a_ _pet_ _ever_ _since._ _Not_ _to_ _say_ _the_ _thought_ _never_ _came_ _to_ _mind_ _every_ _once_ _in_ _a_ _while._ _But_ _after_ _what_ _happened_ _to_ _Goldie,_ _I_ _never_ _could_ _trust_ _myself_ _to_ _care_ _for_ _any_ _sort_ _of_ _creature._ _So_ _when_ _Fate_ _threw_ _herself_ _on_ _my_ _doorstep,_ _I_ _wasn't_ _sure_ _what_ _to_ _do._

 

Fate is the name Vincent gave to the stray Siamese cat that was found scratching on Hartmann's front door that morning. As an owner and lover of ivory-feathered avians, Hartmann is not all too fond of felines. Instead, he decides to hand the kitten over to somebody he can trust—and who can he trust more than his own godson?

 

“You've got to be kidding me,” Vince says bluntly.

 

“Aw, come on, Kaninchen! Just until ve find his owner.” Hartmann shoves the kitten—which looks even tinier in the Medic's giant hands—even closer to the Scout, to the point that its big, sparkling cat eyes stare right into his soul. “I'd give him to another merc, if I vanted, but unfortunately, zhey don't allow pets in the barracks. Besides, I know you're good vith animals.”

 

“Actually, I shouldn't be trusted with anything less sentient or intelligent than an adult human being.”

 

“Now you're just making excuses!” He cradles the kitten and starts tickling its tummy. “Can you do zhis for me? I'll pay you back for it—I promise.”

 

A sigh, and then: “Alright. But just until his owner arrives. Hand 'im over.” Hartmann gladly does so, and Vincent, uncomfortable with the whole situation, feels even more awkward holding the small cat.

 

While Fate is off exploring her new (temporary) home, Vincent is busy trying to make his apartment as cat-proof as possible. Hiding valuable possessions, putting away the glasses and china, clearing out the countertops and tabletops in case the cat climbs on top of them. He has no idea how to take care of such a creature, and he sure as hell isn't going to learn at this rate. Scooping up Fate before she starts scratching the furniture, he picks up the phone with one hand and dials the number to the Teufort BLU barracks.

 

“You got a cat?” Mortimer says, a childlike curiosity in his tone. “Of course I can help out. I love cats—they're so cute! I'm comin' right over!” He hangs up before Vince can even put in a word.

 

Mortimer arrives at Vince's apartment a few minutes later, but he's not alone. Spy—wearing a cute blouse and a knee-length pencil skirt today—steps out from behind the Sniper and brightens up upon seeing the cat. He rushes over, swipes the cat from Vince's arms, and proceeds to coddle and coo at it like a baby. Which goes well with the Scout's plans, as he and Mort can at least talk in peace then.

 

“I don't intend on keeping her for long,” Vincent informs Mort over a cup of joe. “Maybe a week, at most, depending on how soon we can get a hold of the owner. Either way, I'll be glad to have that furball out of my life.”

 

Mort chuckles at the Scout's expense. “You don't seem too happy 'bout that. You more of a dog owner?”

 

“I'm not any kind of owner.” He mutters under his breath, “Animals hate me.”

 

“Aw, I'm sure that ain't the case. Maybe this'll prove to be a great learning experience for you. I'm sure you two'll be the best of friends!” He flashes a smile so warm and bright, that even Vince's ice-cold skepticism starts to melt.

 

He stares down his mug and ponders over the thought. “Yeah... Maybe I should give 'er a chance.” His gaze returns to Mort. “We'd better drop by the pet shop and get some food and stuff for Fate... er, the kitty.”  _I_ _can't_ _believe_ _I_ _even_ _gave_ _her_ _a_ _name!_ _Don't_ _they_ _have_ _a_ _rule_ _or_ _saying_ _against_ _this_ _stuff?_ _Oh,_ _yeah:_ _“Don't_ _name_ _them;_ _you'll_ _only_ _get_ _attached_ _to_ _them_ _”._ _Well,_ _I_ _guess_ _it's_ _a_ _little_ _too_ _late,_ _anyhow._

 

From the bushman's devious expression, he seems to know exactly what's on his mind. “Sure thing! By the time we're done, she'll will feel right at home!” He chugs down the remainder of his drink and heads out the camper. Vince follows after him and shuts the door, but not before ordering Spy to watch over Fate while they're out.

 

The pet shop is a short drive from the residential outskirts where the apartment complexes and houses are located, and can be found easily, due to it being the only business of its kind in the area. After Mort parks his camper van in the lot, he and Vince make way for the store entrance—and stop in their tracks. Working the register near the front is an all-too-familiar face that's not a pleasant sight for either of them.

 

“Baldo, what're you doing, working here?” Vince says, his outrage punctuated through use of the other Scout's much-loathed nickname. “I thought you hated animals!”

 

“'Hat _ed'_. Past tense, Wimpcent,” retorts the Scout from RED. “I've changed a lot these past few years, brother. I love animals now. And I'm certainly better at handling them than you.” To prove this, he walks over and takes out a giant, golden-scaled snake, then shows it off to Vincent, who recoils at the serpent's slithering tongue. “See?” He turns his attention to an unimpressed Mort. “Of course, being from the Outback and all, this is probably kids' stuff to you.” He puts the snake back in its cage. “So why're you here, anyways?”

 

“That's none of yer business, Valdo,” Mort says, attempting to hold back his loathing for the cocky youth. He grabs the nervous Scout's hand and drags him towards the animal supplies aisle. “C'mon, Vince. We've got work to do.”

 

Right away, Mortimer puts Vince to work, carrying heavy bags of cat food and bundles of cat toys. Meanwhile, he has one arm wrapped around a scratching post, and the other a bag of kitty litter. When they've finished their shopping, he puts it all on his account, claiming responsibility for the cat when Valdo interrogates (read, “teases”) them about it. He then storms off towards the van, dumps the items into the back, and revs up the engine before Vince could even climb into his seat. Throughout the brief trip back to the apartment, the normally amiable Mort is eerily quiet, to the point where the BLU Scout is a bit scared of him. Even Spy notices this unusual behavior and holds Fate even closer to him when he enters.

 

“What happened,” Spy asks as he watches Mortimer set up the cat care equipment.

 

Vincent—who's also standing by, due to Mort's bitter mood keeping him at bay—answers, “Let's just say he had a less-than-pleasant encounter with a certain RED merc.”

 

Spy nods, understanding the context behind the Scout's comment. “Still, I cannot imagine Mort holding a grudge towards anybody, RED or BLU. Whatever set him off must have been somezhing important to him.”

 

“Well...” Vincent tickles Fate's tummy, causing the kitten to mew and playfully paw at his hand. “I think he wants to prove something to him. I don't know what, exactly, but I think Fate's gonna be in quite a predicament.” When Spy asks why, he shrugs. “I dunno. Just a feeling.”  _A_ _bad_ _one,_ _at_ _that._

 

As the sun goes down, the trio are faced with a predicament.

 

“What're we gonna do when you're out?” Mort's brows furrow in concern. “We can't just let the poor kit all alone. An' I got a night shift comin' up, so I can't stay here.”

 

“I can stay behind and—”

 

“NO,” the Scout says sternly. “She's my problem. Besides, I already did a morning shift, so I can skip out for the evening.” Vincent isn't one to miss work, save for the rare sick day, so the shock on the other two's faces is nothing but genuine.

 

“I, erm... Alright. Well, everything's set up, so it should be pretty straightforward from here.” Mort stands up from his cross-legged position on the floor and stretches. “If you got any problems, you know who to call.” He ruffles Vince's hair and heads for the door. “'Night.”

 

Spy waves and calls out, “Have fun, you two!” as he follows the Sniper out.

 

After hearing the door close, Vincent lifts the kitten up to his eye level and stares at her. “Listen and listen closely. You may be cute and all, but I'm not gonna be so merciful. The moment you start misbehaving, I'm kicking you out, got it? Don't try to argue with me. When I said you're only staying a week, I meant it. I can't afford to take care of you, or any critter that comes by. So tomorrow morning, I'm gonna go find your owner.”

 

The blue-eyed Siamese stares at Vince, as if pleading for mercy or attention. “Oh, alright. You can sleep on my bed tonight.” Realizing just what he's doing, he sets the cat on the floor and sighs. “Hardly a day with you, and I'm already becoming the crazy cat owner. I need to get rid of her quick.”

 

The next morning, Vincent wakes up to perform his usual morning routine of breakfast, shower, and dressup, and is about to walk out when he hears a tiny mew at his feet. With a sigh, he stops to pour food and water into the plastic bowls on the kitchen floor, by the litter-box, and walks out. During his stroll through town, he notices a bunch of fliers hanging on telephone poles and fences and store windows. They all appear identical, and they all read

 

LOST PET

SIAMESE KITTEN

CREAMY FUR & BLUE EYES

IF FOUND, CALL 555.415.5136

BIG REWARD!

 

There's no photo to go along with it, but the description listed matches up to the cat that's undoubtedly enjoying herself in his apartment. He tears out the flier, folds it, and puts it in his pocket for future reference. As he's folding it, he hears a ripping sound coming from nearby. He turns and his heart sinks. There's Valdo, tearing down flyers from the pet shop window. And judging by the side glance and smirk, he can see him, too.

 

“Morning, brother,” he says casually while tossing a flier into the trash bin. “Just cleaning out some unwanted filth. How 'bout you?”

 

Vince gulps and answers, his voice shaky, “Just going to work.” He grips the strap of his duffel bag tightly. “Shouldn't you keep those up, just in case?” He knows too well what his answer is going to be; Valdo never cares about the well-being of others.

 

He sneers. “Why should I? I ain't wastin' my time lookin' for some mangy cat. 'Sides, the less Mort knows about it, the longer he can keep that stupid creature.”

 

This answer takes Vince off-guard.  _So_ _he_ _thinks_ _Mort_ _found_ _the_ _cat._  “But what about the reward? Do you really want to let this opportunity slip by?”

 

He shrugs and tosses another flier into the trash. “It ain't worth the trouble. I can earn more working in this stupid shop.” Vincent has to hold back a chuckle. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree; despite being the BLU Scout's polar opposite, they're both workaholics at heart.

 

“Well, I'm not one to turn down any chances to earn money. I might as well help out, do Mort a favor.” The RED Scout's ear perks up. “We can always split the reward fifty-fifty. Unless you want a share...?”

 

Valdo hesitates for a long moment, then walks over to the trash bin and digs out one of the crumpled-up fliers. “Well, if it'll get me out of this job, I suppose I can handle one stupid cat.” He glares at his twin. “But I'm gonna take your fifty!” He turns away and storms into the store. With him out of his hair, Vince can finally relax.

 

Vincent breezes through his morning shift, capturing control points and earning his team several victories in a row. He has even dominated an enemy Soldier and the Medic pocketing him, though he also finds a nemesis in a grenade-happy Demoman that continues to take him by surprise. By high noon, he's sent several of his foes back battered and beaten. Now he's in the camper with Spy, heading back to his dorm to check up on Fate. But Mort isn't happy to hear what he had to say about his encounter this morning.

 

“You WHAT? Vince, have you thought this over? Like, REALLY thought it over? Bloody little rabbit, you should've talked this over with me before you went and do that, you bloody idiot!” He bashes his fist against the wheel, blaring the horn by accident and frightening the Scout in the process.

 

Recovering from the shock, Vince replies, “P-please listen. I know what I'm doing. If we do this right, we won't even have to deal with Valdo. Heck, we can just call 'em right away and get it done and over with! Look, Val thinks you found the cat, so if you do as he expects, you can give the cat back and get the reward, and my life can go back to normal again.”

 

Mortimer raps his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking about it. “Alright. But Valdo's your problem.”

 

They carry out their plan the moment they enter the apartment. The Scout holds out the flier, which Mort snatches and reads off as he dials the number. Meanwhile, Spy is in the kitchen, playing with Fate, and Vince watches anxiously while overhearing the conversation being held in the next room. (He's not sure exactly what's going on, but he hears Mort saying, “Yes, bring everything! That'd be perfect!” before exchanging fare-thee-wells with the stranger on the other end.) A moment later, Vince hears the phone slam, and Mort enters, a grin on his face. “Great news! The owner'll be here in thirty minutes.”

 

The doorbell rings—just as Mort said—thirty minutes later. Vincent eagerly opens the door, but his excitement turns to bafflement at the sight before him. Standing at the front, holding giant paper bags of Chinese (or is it Japanese? Well, it's Asian, as far as he's concerned) takeout, is a diminutive RED Soldier in an outfit that is stereotypically Chinese. “Nihao! Special delivery for Mortimer Mundy!” the Soldier says as he shoves the bags in Vince's direction. Reluctantly, he takes the food and tells him to wait a moment before heading into the kitchen.

 

“Mort, is this a joke?” Vince says as he slams the bags on the dining table. “I thought you were calling the owner, not ordering takeout!”

 

The Sniper appears unfazed by the Scout's frustration. “Relax, li'l bunny! I called the right number.” He heads over to the front and Vince can hear him tell the Soldier to “bring everything over this way.” In moments, the kitchen table and counters are filled with bags of Asian-style takeout. He leads the deliveryman to Vincent and starts explaining things. “Vince, I think you're familiar with Zhen Dou. He's here to reclaim 'is cat.”

 

That moment, the kitten jumps out of Spy's arms and runs up to Zhen Dou's feet. Zhen—in a manner most childish—squeals and picks up his pet. “Mingyun!” Embracing the small cat, he speaks to Mort and company, “Thank you for finding my kitty, Mundy-san. I hope she wasn't too much trouble.”

 

“Aw, thanks. But it was Vince who found 'im first.”

 

“Aw, it's no problem... Wait, 'him'? Isn't Fate a girl?”

 

Zhen and Vincent, confused looks on their faces, stare at the cat. “Wait, you mean you didn't know? Lemme show you.” Mort takes Fate—er, Mingyun—into his arms and lifts the tail. Then he proceeds to lecture them on the differences between male and female cats, and how to find out their sex when they're young. “And that's how you sex a kitten. It's good information to know.” The two youngsters are no longer ignorant, but they've both lost their appetite for the time being.

 

“Anyways,” Vincent says, veering away from the subject of feline genitalia, “your flier said there was going to be a reward. Not to sound greedy, but would it be all right if you gave that to us?”

 

Zhen giggles. “I already did! Mort asked if we could give him the reward in the form of food, and we couldn't agree more.”

 

Vince gives him an expression that reads “are you fucking serious”, then turns to Mort, who whistles innocently. He sighs, then says, “Well, at least it'll be easier to share. Still, it's an awful lot of food. What are we gonna do with all this?”

 

“PARTY TIME,” Spy shouts at the top of his lungs as he shoots up from his seat. But when he senses everyone's glare (especially Hartmann, who was summoned by Vincent at Mort's suggestion), he slumps his shoulders and sits back down, picking at his pitiful portion of shrimp and rice. He glances at Mortimer, who's shooting daggers at Valdo in-between bites. Looking around the table, the twin Scouts don't appear to be any happier by each other's presence. Hartmann, visibly discomforted by the tension in the room, quietly eats his meal. Really, when it comes down to it, the only ones enjoying this so-called “party” are himself and Zhen (who, with his parents' permission, is staying over for dinner).

 

In an attempt to cut through the silence, the Spy speaks up. “Speaking of pets, I've always wanted a cat of my own. Unfortunately, I could never have one. SPAI policy and all zhat. Zhen, how come you can get a cat, despite being in SOLDR?”

 

Zhen slurps his noodles and looks up at Spy. “Mingyun's a family pet, so he stays at Mama's and Baba's place. I don't know how things work at SPAI, but I really am sorry. You can always drop by and play with him, though. You, too, Vince!”

 

Vincent drops his fork and laughs nervously. “Oh, no. Thank you, but I'm not exactly the type that's well-liked with animals.”

 

“Really? I think Mingyun likes you.” Meanwhile, the Siamese kitten rubs his face against the Scout's leg.

 

Hartmann stops eating and turns his attention to Vince. “Kaninchen, if you veren't good with animals, vould I have asked you to take care of zhe kitty? I very vell could have given him to Valdo.” He leans in closer and whispers, “And ve all know he can't be trusted.”

 

Valdo is having none of this. “I can hear you, old man! What makes you think he can do a better job than me? He's the reason Goldie ran away, after all.”

 

Spy's ears perk up. “Goldie? Who's she?”

 

“She's just a stupid dog, is all.” Hartmann glares at Valdo, who shrugs it off.

 

Vincent, gripping the edge of the table, is on the verge of tears. “She's not just a stupid dog. She was my best friend. Losing her hurt me so much. Especially after Valter...” He pushes his plate away and stands up. “Excuse me. I need to use the bathroom.” Right as he says that, he walks out of the kitchen, trying his hardest to hide his face from his guests. Especially Valdo, who simply continues to enjoy his meal, indifferent to his twin brother's grief.

 

 _I_ _remember_ _hating_ _that_ _stupid_ _dog._ _Too_ _small_ _and_ _too_ _girly,_ _I_ _told_ _them._ _They_ _should've_ _gotten_ _one_ _of_ _the_ _other_ _dogs_ _at_ _the_ _kennel,_ _like_ _that_ _doberman_ _near_ _the_ _entrance._ _But_ _no,_ _our_ _ditzy-ass_ _mom_ _insisted_ _we_ _HAD_ _to_ _have_ _a_ _cocker._ _“They're_ _sweet_ _and_ _friendly_ _and_ _simply_ _adorable,_ _” she_ _said._ _She_ _was_ _probably_ _expecting_ _the_ _little_ _runt_ _to_ _become_ _a_ _show dog or_ _something._ _Thank_ _God_ _that_ _never_ _happened._

_What_ _did_ _happen_ _was_ _worse._ _Goldie,_ _the_ _brainless_ _bundle_ _of_ _fur,_ _took_ _a_ _liking_ _to_ _Vince._ _Not_ _that_ _I_ _ever_ _liked_ _her that much,_ _but_ _it_ _did_ _hurt,_ _seeing_ _her_ _shrug_ _you_ _off_ _in_ _favor_ _of_ _your_ _other_ _brothers,_ _especially_ _your_ _special_ _snowflake,_ _goody-two-shoes_ _twin._ _I_ _thought_ _dogs_ _were_ _supposed_ _to_ _be_ _loyal;_ _as_ _it_ _turns_ _out,_ _that's_ _a_ _bunch_ _of_ _bull._ _So_ _when_ _the_ _little_ _frilly_ _pet_ _ran_ _away,_ _I_ _was_ _relieved._ _With_ _her_ _gone,_ _maybe_ _I_ _can_ _receive_ _a_ _little_ _bit_ _of_ _the_ _attention_ _she_ _stole_ _away_ _from_ _me._

_Until_ _I_ _found_ _her._ _My_ _brothers_ _and_ _I_ _had_ _set_ _out_ _a_ _search_ _party_ _to_ _look_ _for_ _Goldie,_ _and_ _while_ _I_ _split_ _apart_ _from_ _the_ _rest_ _of_ _the_ _group,_ _I_ _came_ _across_ _her_ _in_ _an_ _alleyway._ _She_ _yapped_ _and_ _growled_ _at_ _me,_ _but_ _being_ _a_ _sissy_ _cocker,_ _she_ _hardly_ _thought_ _to_ _fight_ _back._ _So_ _I_ _took_ _a_ _sturdy_ _blunt_ _object_ _and_ _hit_ _her_ _with_ _it._ _Repeatedly._ _Over_ _and_ _over,_ _I_ _beat_ _her_ _in_ _the_ _head,_ _until_ _she_ _was_ _lying_ _in_ _a_ _pool_ _of_ _her_ _own_ _blood,_ _unbreathing,_ _unconscious,_ dead _._

_Killing_ _her_ _wasn't_ _exactly_ _my_ _intention._ _I_ _just_ _wanted_ _to_ _make_ _Vince_ _suffer._ _But_ _having_ _her_ _gone_ _was_ _certainly_ _a_ _benefit._ _I_ _took_ _great_ _care_ _to_ _hide_ _the_ _evidence_ _as_ _well_ _as_ _possible._ _Ran_ _straight_ _home,_ _changed_ _my_ _clothes,_ _disposed_ _of_ _the_ _old,_ _bloodstained_ _ones._ _By_ _the_ _time_ _my_ _brothers_ _returned_ _from_ _their_ _fruitless_ _hunt,_ _they_ _were_ _none_ _the_ _wiser._

 

“What're you smiling about?” Valdo snaps out of his trance and looks up at Mort, his brows furrowed and his eyes narrowed. “Got somethin' you wanna share?”

 

Valdo, realizing that he was, indeed, smiling, comes up with a passable answer. “Oh, just reminiscing the good times we've had with Goldie. Playing with her, talking to her, seeing her at the door at the end of every school day. Thinking about it, I'm starting to miss her, too.”

 

The Sniper is skeptical, but he seems to accept the lie, anyway. Hartmann, however, will not. “Bitte? I remember othervise.”

 

“I'm speaking in retrospect, gramps.” His tone is sharp and bitter, certainly not how one would speak to a relative, blood-related or otherwise. “Nostalgia makes even the worst memories seem mild, even enjoyable, in comparison.”

 

Seeing how the dinner is beginning to fall apart under all the negativity, Zhen stands up and bows. “Um, maybe I should go now. My parents are probably worried about me. Thank you for the meal, Mundy-san. Everybody.” He takes Mingyun and leaves the apartment as quickly as his little feet can take him.

 

Soon after, Mortimer and Spy also have to leave, and only Vincent, Valdo, and Hartmann are left. (Not to say that Valdo wanted to stay; as soon as he stood, the doctor ordered him to sit back down.) When Vincent returns from the bathroom, Hartmann tells the two Scouts to “talk things out, like brothers do” and leaves for the bathroom. For several minutes, they don't say anything, communicating purely through nervous glances and closed-off body language. Finally, someone speaks up.

 

“Why do you hate me, brother?”

 

Valdo whips his head in Vince's direction. “What the—? Where'd the hell did you get that idea?”

 

“It's pretty obvious. You know it, I know it. I'm pretty sure everyone else at dinner saw it.” His  hands grip his knees, catching the fabric of his pants. “I just want to know... What did I do wrong? What did I do to deserve this? We're brothers, for God's sake! You could at least be honest with me. Please...” His eyes start to water.

 

 _Boy,_ _what_ _a_ _wimp._  “It's nothing in particular. I just hate how everybody fawns all over you. 'Oh, you're such a sweet boy, Vincent!' 'How smart you are, Vincent!' Vincent the nice guy, Vincent the genius, Vincent the good kid. What about me? I'm nothing but a stupid delinquent.”

 

“That's not true.” Valdo's taken aback. “I'm not as great as they say.”

 

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “You sure as hell ain't.”

 

“But you're not as bad as they say, either. I mean, sure, you're rude and aggressive and kind of a sociopath, but I know you're more than that. Like, if you hated animals so much, why would you work at a pet shop? Surely, there was something you liked about it.”

 

A pause, then: “You know how you always said animals hate you? That's not true. If anything, they hate  _me_. Goldie never liked me much, despite what they say 'bout cockers bein' friendly to everyone. Not that I ever liked her much. But I felt betrayed somehow, like I became the third wheel or something.”

 

Vincent shifts his glance away, then back to Valdo's face. Then he pats his shoulder and smiles, awkward but reassuring. “Val, you're my brother, and my oldest best friend. How can I forget about you?”

 

Valdo stares down, gloomy. “A lot's changed since that day. You changed, I changed. Nothing's ever been the same.” He shrugs off Vince's hand and turns away.

 

“Yeah...” He sighs, keeping his hands to himself again. “Say, you never answered my question. About the pet shop thing. Why do you work there?”

 

“Money.” His shoulders slump, lowering his guard. “And the animals over there seem to like me a lot better. 'Specially the reptiles.” He smiles sadly. “There's a snake I've had my eye on for quite some time. I thought, by working at the shop, I can get closer to him without havin' to worry about keeping him at my place.”

 

Vince isn't sure what he's more surprised about: that Valdo is opening up to him for the first time in years, or the fact that he's not smiling in a “I'm so much better than you” way, but in a genuine, even heartbreaking manner. “Wow, I... I think you should totally get him. If you really want something, you should go for it, right? Besides, we were still kids when we had Goldie; we've grown up a lot since then.” He gives a tiny, nervous smile. “I think you'll do fine.”

 

Nothing, then laughter. “That's why you're the older brother. You always know what to say.” He stands up from his seat. “Don't get me wrong, I still hate you. Just a bit less so now. Well, ta, mate, or whatever it is that Sniper friend of yours says.” He turns and starts heading for the front door, but as he passes by the restroom, he knocks on the door and says, “You can come out now, gramps” before leaving.

 

After hearing the front door close, Hartmann finally emerges from the bathroom and takes Valdo's spot. “So, how did it go,” he asks with a smile that implies that he knows more than he's letting on.

 

Vince shrugs. “It's strange. We had an entire conversation that didn't end in a fight, or me crying. That hasn't happened in, like, forever. You know, if it wasn't for Fate—er, Mingyun—I don't think we'd ever be able to talk like that. It's almost like...”

 

“Fate?” The Scout whips his head towards Hartmann, who's casually wiping his glasses with a corner of his blouse. “Vell, one thing's for certain: zhe both of you are getting along now. Maybe not in zhe same vay you have vhen you vere kids, but you're getting zhere.”

 

“Yeah. Just a bit.” He looks away and stares at the bags of Asian-style food still left over when an idea strikes him. “Hey, Hart, can you help me with something?”

 

Valdo doesn't live far from the apartment complexes where his twin brother resides. Just a further out, towards the end of the town border, where the houses are smaller and a little worn for wear.  The place he calls “home” is not so much a house as an old shack, completely in shambles.  _If it were bigger, it would make the ideal spot for a haunted house_ , Val once thought, and still continues to think from time to time. He could afford to live better, what with the money he earns doing mercenary work, but he has better things to spend his money on.

 

He has one foot on the flimsy porch step when he hears someone calling his name. Thrown off by the voice, he turns around and spots Vincent, waving at him with one hand and carrying a large paper bag with the other. Vince approaches the RED Scout and hands him the bag. “Hey, you forgot this.” Reluctant, Valdo takes it and looks inside. “I'm not too sure what you like, but Hartmann said you liked sushi, so I packed plenty in there. I also put in some tuna and egg rolls, 'cause I thought they tasted pretty good.” He glances at the ramshack house. “This your place?”

 

Valdo averts his gaze and chews his bottom lip, too embarrassed to confess. “Yeah.” He closes the bag and mutters “thanks” before running inside and slamming the door shut. Setting the bag down on the wooden table, he removes the contents one by one. Three boxes of tightly-packed sushi rolls, two boxes of plain and flavored rice, a small bag of egg rolls (some vegetarian, some not), and a box of delicious-looking fatty tuna. Internally pleased by this offering, he shelves them in his tiny refrigerator with great care.

 

 _Still_ , he thinks to himself as he enters his bedroom,  _I can't let my guard down_. He rifles through the top drawer and takes out a syringe and a vial filled with a mysterious red substance.  _He already knows too much. I can't allow him to come any closer._  After filling the syringe, he digs the needle into his arm and slowly presses down, letting the substance flow into his veins. His fingers twitch, and he grins as the warm, tingly sensation overtakes him.  _If he does... If I allow him... He might not be able to take it._


	3. A Special Treat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zhen Dou loves working at his family's restaurant, and seeing Mort sitting and having lunch with his friends always makes him happy. But lately, his admiration for the BLU Sniper has grown to mind-boggling extents. So when Zhen learns of his strange tastes, he attempts the unthinkable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Contains mild weight gain elements and references to fat fetishism.
> 
> This is an old and rather mindlessly written piece, notable not only for the aforementioned fetishistic overtones, but for being among the earliest works featuring Zhen Dou the Soldier and the absolute first with Ooshiro in a role at all.

It's a typical day at Kanpai's Restaurant and Pub: sparse in the morning, loaded by lunchtime, and moderately populated in the evening. But for Zhen Dou, today is anything but typical. In fact, he cherishes these days whenever they happen. He can never predict when they'll happen, but when they do, they become that much better.

 

Despite being a RED-sponsored establishment, Kanpai's considers itself as "neutral territory", and welcomes all kinds of customers with open arms. Speaking of customers, there's a group of regulars, all of them sporting the colors of Builders League United. Today, the group includes a Sniper, a Medic, a Scout, and a Spy. Zhen recognizes them immediately, and he gladly shows them to their table (which they frequent so much, that the young Soldier has internally considered it reserved just for them). He greets them as he does every other customer, but his tone and wording becomes more casual and friendly. Sometimes, when the Medic in question—himself a born-and-bred Japanese—is present, he would strike up a chat in his native tongue. But every time the Sniper's around, his heart is sent aflutter; none of the others cause him to feel this way.

 

He goes through the Medic's, Spy's, and Scout's orders quickly, and turns to the Sniper. "And what would you like today, Mort," Zhen asks, his pink cheeks becoming a touch redder. The other three are generally easy to figure out (the Medic's allergy to seafood restricts his choices by quite a bit, the Spy doesn't eat much, and the Scout generally veers towards vegetarian options), but Mort is a wild card. Sometimes, he will order a little bit of almost everything, other times, he'll settle for a treat and a drink. But one thing never changes: he  _always_  returns for seconds.

 

"Geez, you two are such pigs!" The Spy teases while pointing his chopsticks at Mort and the Medic, who happen to be sitting right next to each other. "Don't you agree, Vince?"

 

The Scout laughs nervously, uncertain whether to play along or not. "I can't say I disagree." He watches the Medic eat before saying, "Ooshiro, you're eating less than usual. Are you on a diet?"

 

The Medic—Ooshiro—drops his chunk of rice and bows his head sullenly. "I-is it that obvious?" Vince nods. "Well, I've been putting on weight again recently, so I'm trying to hold back on my meat portions until it stabilizes."

 

"Well, it certainly won't be easy with this glutton around," the Spy grins as his chopsticks grab hold of Mort's cheek and pinch and stretch it. The Sniper is clearly not amused.

 

Swatting the chopsticks away, Mort changes the subject. "Hey, has anyone noticed somethin' a little bit different about Zhen?"

 

"If you're talking about the way he acts around you, that's nothing unusual," the Spy flatly points out.

 

"Alan! I mean..." He leans forward and lowers his voice. "Dontcha think he looks a little, erm, softer?"

 

The Spy, unimpressed by this revelation, says, "Mort, I always thought of you as the type who's into older men, like Gramps and Duncan. You gonna go toddler-cuddling on me now?"

 

"Dammit, of course not! 'Sides, Zhen-y's eighteen now—legal, but still a bit young fer my tastes. I just find it kinda weird, that's all."

 

"You're the weird one, Mortimer. He only looks different because he hasn't been wearing his helmet. Besides, he's always been a bit on the soft side, if you know what I mean. Want my advice? Dump shark-boy here and give Dou Boy a try!"

 

"I told you, he's just not my type. I mean, he's cute an' all, but..."

 

"Uh, guys?" Vincent butts in. "Maybe we should change the subject. Zhen could be listening, for all we know."

 

As it turns out, the Scout was right. Standing behind a pillar, out of view, is Zhen Dou. He's only caught the latter part of the conversation, but he's heard just enough to realize just what Mort thinks of him. He pinches his cheeks, thinking over his recent eating habits. Back when he was still in SOLDR, his food was strictly rationed, and his parents—back when he lived with them—would feed him accordingly, making sure he received just enough to keep his strength up while training. But once he graduated and moved to the barracks, he's gradually veered away from the SOLDR-approved diet and had begun cooking and eating of his own free will. Come to think of it, all those sweets he's been eating might have also contributed to his waistline. How has he not noticed this at all?

 

He comes out of hiding to take back their empty plates and hand them their bill. Once all is said and done, he makes head right for the bathroom, where he inspects himself in the mirror.  _Oh,_ _I_ _really_ _have_ _gained_ _weight_ , he thinks with a frown.  _At_ _this_ _rate,_ _Mortimer_ _will_ _be_ _absolutely_ _disgusted_ _by_ _me!_  A part of him realizes this is ridiculous, but the rest of him is too ashamed to listen. "I can't fix my age, but I can at least fix my body... right?"

 

Little does he know, somebody was watching the whole time. Out of nowhere, two hands sneak up from behind, and they grab hold of Zhen and drag him into a bathroom stall. As he struggles to break free, a voice whispers, "Shush! It's me, Alan!" The Soldier looks up at his captor and immediately recognizes the blond, freckled face. "Don't scream, I'm here to help you."

 

"Help me?" Zhen asks. "You mean, you can help me lose weight?"

 

The Spy scoffs at the comment. "Please! Don't even bother! Most diets never work for long. Take it from the one who tried to get Mort to lose weight." He puts his hands on Zhen's shoulders. "Listen, if you want to get Mort's attention, losing weight is the last thing you should do. In fact, you should keep doing whatever it is that you're doing."

 

"WHAT? But if I do that, I'll..."

 

"Grow fat? Zhen-y, Zhen-y, Zhen-y. A little extra poundage isn't the end of the world. In fact, it's the key to Morty's love. You know what they say about getting to a man's heart through his penis."

 

"I thought it was through his  _stomach_."

 

"Yeah, that, too. Mortimer Mundy is a very simple man. He's like an overgrown puppy in a man's body. If you're going win his love, you've got to compete with the big boys!" Alan digs into his breast pocket and pulls out some (rather steamy) photos to show off. "It's no big secret that Mort has a thing for larger men. I don't know the particulars of how his mind works, but I believe he likes to feel protected and spoiled, like a heroine from a cheesy romance novel. And to be honest, you're kind of tiny and vulnerable-looking, like a baby."

 

Zhen's face falls glum as he inspects the photos again. "So what you're saying is... if I just bulk up a little bit, then I might have a chance?"

 

The Spy grins as he swipes the photos and pockets them. "Exactly! I know what you Soldiers are capable of. So have a go, yer mug!" Zhen cocks his head in confusion, and Alan sighs in exasperation. "Go for it!" Then he pushes the small Soldier out of the stall and disappears before he's even aware of what just happened.

 

Following Alan's advice, Zhen begins work on his new "diet". In addition to increasing his usual portions, he has also started making extra to eat during his breaks. He's also stocked up on snacks and baking ingredients, for when he needs to hide his intentional gaining under the guise of sharing treats with teammates and friends. To make sure all is going according to plan, he buys a scale and sets up a weekly goal of five pounds per week, minimum. Once that becomes too easy to surpass, he steps it up a notch to ten pounds, then twenty. As a working mercenary, however, he cannot afford to get too soft and lag behind. He takes up walking and weight-lifting—habits which are simple to do, but still beneficial in the long run.

 

Over a month has passed since his private meeting with the BLU Spy, and a lot has changed since then. Mostly himself. His baby face has grown even rounder, sporting a slight double chin. His rear end has practically doubled in size, and his rotund belly is beginning to peek under the crack of his strained top. Even his chest has puffed up, budding into soft, feminine breasts. He's become quite fat, and at a faster rate than even he expected. The exercises he's been taking has helped to improve his ability to maneuver with the excess weight, but he is still a bit bothered by the tightness of his clothes and the way his bottom and belly jiggles with every step. While his growth is not exactly a well-kept secret, Zhen still tries to hide it whenever possible, especially from his parents. So when Mort and his friends from last time return, he starts feeling more ashamed than proud.

 

"Nihao," he greets with a whimper. "How can I help you?" He can almost feel their gaze boring through his plump body, especially Mort's. What does he think of the changes? Does he really get turned on by this sort of thing, or was the Spy just pulling pranks? The poor boy's trembling from anxiety.

 

The day has only gone downhill from there. He flubs their orders, spills Alan's drink, drops Vince's order, then Mort's, and almost forgets to give them their bill. He has lost count of all the apologies he's given to them. Slapping the bill on the table, he exits through the back door of the restaurant and runs towards the only other place where he can find solace this time of day.

 

In the middle of the copper-colored desert land is an oasis of a park, built for civilians to stroll around in, ignorant of the blood-stained efforts being taken to protect them. With trees and flowers planted by RED's many laborers, the park is the most beautiful part of the town, and has become an attraction, even for mercenaries from both sides. Zhen Dou has frequented this park for as long as he can remember, and has taken to visiting during times of duress, such as now. There's not much to do, but sitting on a bench, watching people and their families and pets passing by, puts him at peace. Unfortunately, this pastime is having little effect on his mood.

 

"Mind if I sit here?" A voice suddenly asks him. Instinctively, his eyes shift to catch a glance at the person standing next to him. He cannot see their face at all, but the person is a giant of a man, with a formidable stomach. Judging by his outfit, he appears to be quite professional, wearing a clean white blouse and blue tie with black pants. Hesitant, the tiny young Soldier nods and scoots over. The giant takes up the remaining space on the bench and sighs, "Danke."

 

 _Danke?_  Zhen's alarms start going off immediately. He knows almost zero German, but "danke" is a word he hears frequently, mostly from his Medic ally and occasionally from the BLU Scout whenever he slips into foreign tongue. But this man's not wearing his team colors, and he's definitely not a Scout. He tilts his head up to get a better look at the stranger and squeaks in terror. The man looks almost nothing like his Medic, sporting round glasses and short, graying black hair with a loose curl; behind his coal black eyes lies a hidden strength that intimidates Zhen. He has seen this man before: a few times, he's come to the restaurant, usually accompanied by Vince or Ooshiro, and always by Mort; occasionally, he caught glimpses of him on the field, living up to his frightening reputation as a battle-hardened doctor with an active trigger finger; but most recently, he's seen his face and half-dressed body in one of Alan's candid photos.

 

The portly giant's eyes widen the moment he locks gazes with Zhen, then he chuckles when he hears him squeak. "Ah, it's you! Zhe vaiter boy from zhe restaurant! I never vould have expected you to be here, 'specially at zhis time. Jane, right?"

 

Zhen turns away, and mutters, "It's Zhen, actually." He looks back up at the man. "And you're Hartmann-sensei... right?"

 

"Ja, close enough. Now, vhat's vith zhe long face, Zhen-y? Tell Opa Hartmann everyzhing." As he says this, Hartmann wraps his large arm around the tiny boy and pulls him closer.

 

Meekly, Zhen starts explaining. "It's a long story, but, well, there's this person I like. And this person, I heard they like, um, bigger men. Not tiny little boys like me."

 

"So you thought you'd bulk up a bit, right?" Zhen nods. Then, a mischievous smirk on his face, Hartmann pinches the young man's cheek. "Vell, you've certainly done a good job of zhat—zhough it's probably a bit different from vhat zhey vanted."

 

"N-no! Actually, zhey—er, they—kind of like their men... like this." His round cheeks turning bright red, he averts his gaze. "Honestly, I don't understand how anybody could be attracted to this. It's really more of a burden than a blessing."

 

Hartmann shrugs. "Can't say I necessarily understand the attraction, either. But my vife used to say she'd love how soft I vas, zhe feeling she gets vhen she rests her head on me. As for being fat, unless you've been overweight your entire life, you can never really understand how it feels. I've alvays been a stocky kid, so I got made fun of a lot. But I hardly paid much attention; I had better things to do zhan vorry about vhat a bunch of immature brats thought of me. Anyvays, I've had a lifetime of experience carrying excess veight. You don't. Zhat's vhy you find it bothersome."

 

"Oh. Is it possible for me to get used to it?"

 

"Maybe. Zhat depends on vhether you vant to stay zhe vay you are now or not. It's your decision."

 

Zhen thinks long and hard about the decision before saying, "I honestly liked the way I was before. I was a little chubby before, but it never bothered me until a month ago. Now I'm really fat, and I hate it."

 

The large doctor chuckles and ruffles his hair. "Zhat's zhe spirit! If zhis person really does like you, he vouldn't care vhether you vere big as a house or tiny as a mouse. He'd admire you just zhe vay you are. Not to say you cannot change for him, but you shouldn't force yourself to do it just to get his attention. If you have to, zhen he probably doesn't like you in zhat vay." He hears voices in the distance, calling out what sounds like "Jane", and he whips his head in the direction of the sound before turning his attention to Zhen again. "You should talk to him." He pats the Soldier in the back, stands up, and walks away just before the caller can see him.

 

The name being called out was not "Jane", but "Zhen", and the person searching for him was not his parents—like one would expect—but Mortimer. "There you are," Mort says with a mix of relief and joy. "When you ran off, I got worried, an' looked all over town for ya. Here." He takes one of Zhen's pudgy hands and shoved a wad of bills into it. "Sorry for all the trouble, mate."

 

Zhen stares at the money in his hand, then at Mort. "But... but why? I've been screwing up all day. If anything, I should pay you for all the trouble I've caused!" He thrusts out the fistful of money, but the Sniper stops him midway and gently pushes it back towards him.

 

"Take it, Zhen-y. It's the least I could do. If that's not enough, I'll order takeout, so it'd at least be worth the money I gave." Mort takes Hartmann's spot on the bench as Zhen reluctantly pockets the tip. "After you left, Al told me everything. He pro'lly meant well, but he still shouldn't have done that." He stops, then continues, a sadness in his eyes, "But then again, it's my fault for havin' such weird tastes."

 

Shocked, Zhen blurts out, "It's not your fault! That's just the way you are. There's nothing wrong with having different tastes in men or women or whatever. If anyone's at fault, it should be me! I was stupid to force myself to change just so you'd notice me." Tears welling up in his eyes, he stops to wipe them away with his sleeve. "So please... don't stop coming because of me. You've always been my favorite customer."

 

Mort's laughter takes Zhen by surprise, and he's unsure whether to be offended or take it personally. Once he calms down, he puts a hand on his shoulder and smiles. "Zhen, why would you ever think that? You seriously think I'm gonna ditch you just 'cause of a stupid decision you made? You're the best waiter an' cook an' takeout guy, an' an ace mate! Listen, Zhen, I like ya now, an' I liked you then. But I jus' never thought of you as anythin' but a friend. I mean, you're adorable, but you're like a little brother to me, an' I don't wanna ruin that."

 

"Oh. I see. Well, I don't see a problem with that, I suppose. I'll be the best little brother ever!" His smile fades. "But I still can't stop feeling that way for you."

 

"Right. Those kinda feelings don't go away too easily." The bushman furrows his brows and scratches his chin. A second later, he snaps his fingers. "I've got just the solution! Here." He lifts the small Soldier's head and kisses him right on the forehead. Zhen's eyes are wide like saucers, and his entire face is flaring up. As soon as Mort's lips pull away from his skin, he sighs in relief as the welling passion inside him gradually cools down. "It's not much, but it should do the trick. Something friendly, but slightly intimate—a cure for a crush."

 

"A crush...?" Zhen isn't sure what to think of it at first. But the more he looks back, the more he realizes that his feelings were, in fact, just a fleeting passion with little grounding other than the fact that the man sitting next to him just happened to be a regular customer who treated him with respect. His lips curl up into a gentle smile. "I think I understand now. Thank you."

 

"No worries, mate. Now... what're you gonna do about this?" He lightly pokes at Zhen's tummy, causing him to recoil.

 

Amidst all the drama, Zhen had forgotten about his little weight problem until just now. "Well, I still need to make up for making a mess out of everything. Tell you what: I'll give you my dessert everyday for a whole month. And I'll work extra hard from now on. You can join along, too—exercise is a lot more fun with friends!"

 

"Eh, I'll pass on the working bit, but I'll definitely take the dessert!"

 

Unable to help himself, Zhen bursts out laughing; that answer was so Mort-like. "Okay, then. You go walking with me every Saturday, and I'll double your dessert." He holds out a hand. "How about it, friend?"

 

Mort pretends to ponder it over, then shakes on it. "You drive a hard bargain, mate."

 

From that day, the two of them would take strolls through the park every Saturday—sometimes alone, sometimes with friends—and Zhen would invite Mort (and company) over to his place for a treat. Like last time, Zhen has set weekly goals and pushed himself to fulfill them. While he's still chubbier than before the catalystic incident from months ago, he has become much more comfortable with his body than ever. Most importantly, the two mercenaries have formed a bond that is unbreakable.

 

Meanwhile, Mort has found himself unable to fit into his pants, though as anybody will tell you, this situation is nothing unusual for him. But that is another story for another time.


	4. Suggestive Shorts: "The Trouble with Tribbles"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Puffballs everywhere! Mort finds a tribble and brings it to the barracks. What happens next can only be predicted by Trekkies and rabbit owners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Implied cruelty to adorable fluffballs.
> 
> A drabble based on a prompt suggestion by slothageddon on Tumblr. This is the first time I've posted this particular story outside the Tumblr blog, so if you've managed to stumble on this series through this site, I hope you enjoy your stay!

"Vhat zhe hell is zhis?"

 

The fat BLU doctor opens the door leading to the barracks, only to stumble upon a hallway full of balls of fluff the size of his head. Or, to be more precise, a hallway full of giant sentient balls of fluff that seem to be growing and multiplying at an abnormal rate. A second later, he hears a familiar cry for help. "Kaninchen!" Wasting no time, he rushes over to the source of the cry, kicking every last of the fluffballs away, and pulls up a bandaged hand right before it sinks into the sea of fuzz. "Dank Gott you're okay," he says as he brushes the fur from the near-victim's shirt. "Vhat's going on here, Vincent? I come back from a mission in Badlands und find zhe barracks like--like--like this!"

 

Pushing and tossing the fluffballs aside, Vince exclaims, "If you have to know, ask him." He points a finger in the direction of the Sniper, who appears to be lost in thought.

 

 

The Scout is about to say something else, but the Medic--punching more of the strange critters--is already on his way.

 

The Medic pulls the Sniper out of danger and slaps him out of his trance. "Morty, vhat zhe hell are zhese things?" He asks while picking up one of the fuzzballs.

 

"I dunno what they are, but they sure are adorable!" One of the fuzzballs in his arms makes a cooing sound, and he engages in a brief, one-sided conversation consisting largely of baby talk. The doctor clears his throat loudly, and Mort returns to Earth. "Alls I know is Janey found one an' brought it over. Pro'lly thought it was a baby rabbit or somethin'. An' they love t' eat, an' when they eat... Well..." He points at the sea of fluff. "Can't you think of somethin'?" Mort's eyes grow and well up, becoming as endearing as the nuisances he's grown fond of. " _Please?_ "

 

The Medic sighs and slaps his forehead.  _Great. Zhey're Mini-Morts._  "Maybe if ve bring zhem over to RED, ve can be done vith zhem for good."

 

So their newest mission begins. While raiding the opponent's fort, the mercenaries of BLU sneak in the critters little by little, hiding them in various spots throughout the building, until finally, only one remains. This one the mercs have dubbed "Mini-Mort" and--upon discovery--decided to keep in a small freezer in Jane's and Duncan's room, safe from harm and temporarily sterile.

 

Meanwhile, the creatures--which the BLU Spy has referred to as "tribbles", due to their cutesy nature--have completely overwhelmed the RED barracks and fortress, forcing a ceasefire until the vermin are eradicated entirely. Through creative means, the tribbles invading Teufort are entirely extinct (save the one in the freezer), and for a limited time, Kanpai's is offering a rare and exotic dish, while Valdo's new paintbrushes are made using a fine, soft fur unheard of from any species on Earth.


	5. "Skirts and Ribbons"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan wants to change up his work uniform by wearing a skirt instead of pants. Pasha offers to help, but will their efforts lead to success or failure?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sweet and fluffy 'fic I made in response to the lack of Spoovy (Heavy/Spy) fan-content out there. Seeing as it features OCs as stand-ins for their canon counterparts, it's undoubtedly a little bit self-indulgent, and I apologize for that.

It's a beautiful, sunny day in Teufort. The weather is warm, yet breezy—perfect weather for a shirt and shorts. Or a skirt, in Alan's case. As great as trousers are, sometimes it just feels right wearing a skirt. I mean, why turn down the perfect chance to don a summer dress, or a cute, sexy miniskirt? On such a lovely day like this, the opportunities are endless!

 

“You are  _not_  vearing zhat on zhe battlefield.” The oversized BLU Medic crosses his arms and glares down at the Spy.

 

“But Doc, it's beautiful, iz it not?” Alan twirls, the pleats on his skirt cascading into a spiral shape. It is a piece he bought some time ago, and one which he had been waiting ages to wear. It might be a bit short for the conservative doctor's tastes, but aren't Spies sexy by nature, regardless of what they wear?

 

Sadly, Hartmann has no such patience. “Ja, ja. But zhis is not some fashion show or prissy tea party. Zhe battlefield is not made for cutesy skirts and dresses. Now put zhat avay and put on some pants.”

 

Disappointed, Alan starts heading back to the locker room, when a large shadow follows close behind. Alan turns around, and standing before him is a giant, fiddling with his tiny spectacles. “Pasha? What are you...?”

 

“Um, about your skirt, um,” he mumbles to himself. As he gathers his thoughts, he speaks up. “I have tiny set of tights. Bought them from store. They do not fit me—too big. But they might fit you. If you want them, that is.” His lack of confidence in speaking brings out his heavy Russian accent, making him seem unintelligent to strangers, but also more attractive, at least to Alan.

 

“Of course! Show zhem to me.”

 

“Um, about that. Is in my room. Packed away.” The volume of his voice lowers to a mutter. It's clear on his face that he has ulterior motives, yet he is such an awful liar about it. Al admires that about him; it's a sign of his pure heart, so he believes.

 

Pasha escorts Alan past the locker room, to the barracks on the second floor, where the rooms are located. Walking to the end of the hall, he unlocks the room and orders the Spy to wait outside while he retrieves the garment in question. Alan can hear a lot of shuffling from behind the door— _Is Sammy a messy roommate?_ —along with low mutters. As his ear is pressed against the door, his hands are fiddling with a hairpin, jiggling it in the keyhole. Eventually, he manages to reverse the trigger on the lock, but not before Pasha opens the door.

 

Along with the usual bunk bed and drawer, there is a bookshelf filled to the brim, some handheld gym equipment (dumbbells and that stretchy rubber thing with the handles), and a corner that appears to be specifically chosen to stuff all of his roommate's crap. And laid out on the bottom bunk is an assortment of garments, most of them blue, but with some white and black and pastel colors thrown into the mix (no reds, though, for obvious reasons). Hanging by the tips of Pasha's sausage-like fingers is a pair of snow white tights, which contrast with the robin's egg blue of his skirt, but match the lack of color on his blouse. “Is all zhis... for me?”

 

“Y-yes. From myself... and Ooshiro.” He seems particularly ashamed of the last bit, as if a fellow teammate helping him with picking out clothes is a bad thing.

 

“I love it!” Alan snatches the tights from the Heavy's hands and inspects himself with them. “Hmm...” His face contorts, expressing doubt about the overall ensemble. “I think I need a better top. Should be somezhing light, like...” He gasps and rushes over to the sailor blouse. “Zhis is perfect!”

 

“That's from Ooshiro...”

 

“Even better! Now I have an ensemble built by all three of us.” The Spy's joy is cut short the moment he observes the sad look in the Heavy's eyes. “Oh. Well, zhis is just for the workday. Once zhis is all over, I'll put on whatever you like.”

 

Pasha's brows rise. “Anything?”

 

A smile forms on Al's face. “Anything.”

 

With that promise formed, Alan dons the sailor top and tights and skips out to the battlefield proudly, Hartmann be damned. While the skirt has suffered from frequent abuse with each backstab and dodged bullet (magically repaired via Respawn), the cool feeling of the air beneath provides ventilation and an illusion of swiftness and freedom. Plus, it causes some of his victims to cringe in shame, having been outsmarted to death by a man (?) in a skirt. In an ensemble as cute as this, he can do anything. Or so he thinks.

 

Cloaked in invisibility, he sneaks past the front line and into the barnhouse of a fort, sapping Sentries and assassinating minor inconveniences. But as he climbs up the stairway leading to the top floor, where Snipers often roost, he can hear a set of loud footsteps.

 

_THUMP THUMP THUMP._

 

They sound close, too close, but not enough to have come from his own feet. At the top step, he stops. Still, the sound persists. Panicking, he switches into a disguise and turns off the cloaking device, letting the watch recharge while incognito. As he passes through the roost, the blond Sniper glances at him, then returns to his business. The Spy, knife in hand, turns back to approach him. But instead of the Sniper, he finds himself face-to-face with a hulking, faceless abomination. Said abomination is wielding an unusual-looking weapon, a cross between a two-handed gun and a Bunsen burner. The Spy is in the midst of escaping when it pulls the trigger, unleashing a flurry of flaming gas, which caught on to his skirt and rapidly spread to the rest of his body. Even if he jumps out the open window, it's unlikely he would make it to the river in time. Still, he does so, risking a sprained ankle and putting himself in the fray. He runs at top speed, and for a moment, he starts believing he can make it. But in the end, stray fragments from an enemy projectile destroys him—just as his corpse is on the verge of tripping and falling into the waters below.

 

The next time he regains consciousness is safely under the covers of his own bed.  _How did I get here?_  Inspecting himself, he feels nothing more than the softness of his own flesh. The bedroom door opens, and in walks Pasha, carrying an armful of clothes. The large man's icy blue eyes show a distress that the rest of his face tries so hard to hide. Wary, Alan says softly, “Tell me, Pasha: Did we win?” His only response is an averted glance. Following his gaze, Al sees his old clothes sitting on a bench; the scorch marks on the skirt's hem only serves to worsen the mood.

 

“Your body passed out during Respawn process,” Pasha says as he swaps out the burnt garments for a fresh set. “Hartmann and the others were worried, as was I.” He approaches the bed and kneels to stroke Alan's growing locks. “I cannot fix skirt, but I replace it with new one. One even prettier than the last.”

 

“Is that it,” Alan asks, pointing at the blue outfit hanging over the chair. Of all the clothes he has seen today, he recognizes that one the least, least of all the embroidery. Pasha nods, loosening up with a smile. His heart is jumping with anticipation, he simply cannot sit still like this. “A little bit of privacy, please.” He shoos the Heavy away and walks over to examine the garments.

 

Striped stockings, puffy bloomers, and the crowning piece, a royal blue dress with similar traits to the sailor-esque ensemble he was wearing earlier. The skirt is not pleated in any way, but rather, has a lacy trim and an embroidered shield-shaped insignia with an anchor. As for the top part, it resembles one of those Japanese schoolgirl uniforms, with a sewn-on white ribbon adding a fancy flair. Similarly, there are white ribbons on the stockings as well, and the bloomers are lined with strips of blue ribbon. _It's cute—almost_ too  _cute. There's no way I'd look good in this!_  But if Pasha went and picked this out, he must have a good reason. Without further hesitation, he starts putting it on.

 

Pasha is standing outside, waiting patiently for Alan to get dressed.  _He hasn't even bothered to lock the door_ , he muses, his thoughts in native tongue.  _How careless._  But even with his moments of airheadedness, Al is a smart young man... woman... person. He's also friendly and playful and funny. And undoubtedly beautiful. Not once has he questioned his feelings towards the young Spy—it's expressing that love that's the problem.  _What's taking him so long?_

 

He turns to knock on the door when it opens. Staring up at him is the most adorable little faerie he's ever seen. Pasha hates to admit that he didn't quite know Alan's size outside of “really, really tiny”, but after a couple of months of befriending and later dating him, the Spy has filled out to a healthier weight, fitting the dress perfectly. The overall coordination is also not his intention; he stole the idea from one of Ooshiro's Japanese fashion magazines, with some adjustments made to fit within his budget and time. The color choices and purchases are the only things he can take credit for. And judging by his reaction, it works.

 

“Something doesn't seem right,” Alan comments. “Give me a moment, s'il te plaît.” Before Pasha has time to react, Alan starts digging through his drawers, slipping out a ribbon the same color as his own dress. He orders Pasha to bend over so he can tie back his hair. “Et voilà! I want to do more, but sadly, you lack fashion sense. We still have time, though. Perhaps we can go clothes shopping for you, for once.” The two of them laugh, the Spy's airy giggle in contrast with the Heavy's low chuckle. “And afterwards, we can have dinner—on me.” Without warning, he clings to the other's big, strong arm. “Shall we?”

 

Pasha stares longingly at the small sprite attached to him, then stoops down and whispers in Russian, “Yes, my little faerie.”


End file.
